The Trillium

The Best of Ten Years 1996-2005

The Trillium

It is with great pleasure that we present this issue of The Trillium, celebrating the best of the past ten years. After carefully considering and discussing at length the work from all nineteen issues of the last ten years, the co-editors have chosen at least one poem or short story from each issue. From the large selection of high-quality entries, they bring to you the best of the best. With the advancement of computer technology, more art and photos have been submitted in the last five years. More students are also experimenting with art, producing terrific and imaginative photos and paintings. The editors would like to thank Caitlin Greener for her drawing, “Progress,” as well as the other students who submitted artwork for the cover. The editors would also like to thank all the students who have submitted their work in the past and the professors who have fostered the talents of their students, especially Cliff Williams, for dedicating many hours of his time to showcase the talents of Trinity students. Managing Editor: Ryan Ebling Co-Editors: Erin Allums Joshua Held Justin Swanson Lindsey Willicombe Layout: Tiffani Birr Title page drawing: “Trillium,” James Allen Cover: “Progress” Caitlin Greener Faculty Advisor: Cliff Williams, Production Copyright © 2005. This material may not be reproduced by any

means in part or in whole, without written permission from the authors.

December, 2005

CONTENTS

STEPHEN REICHERT Introduction DR. BERNARD STEIN The Ethics of Christian

Aesthetics KAELEE BERGHUIS The Haze Ever So Thick MARTA MCDONALD Stretch Marks HARDACRE SARAH FOWLER MCCAMMON Thievery CHRISTOPHER MCCAMMON An Anatomy of Starbucks KRISTIAN CARLSON Gracie KELLI BOWLDEN Ode to My Tattoo RUBY THOMAS Shall I Compare Thee ANN EBERHARDT Concerning Being RANDY HOFBAUER The Silence KRISTINA ANDERSON Pleas(e) BILLY REEVES American Love JEREMY ALESSI Tet DANIEL J. TODD From “The Chronicles of Herman Clown,” Ch. III

1

2

6

7

8

9

10

12

13

14

15

18

19

20

21

24

25

26

27

28

KRISTINA ANDERSON Water Falls SARAH FOWLER MCCAMMON Sympathy CATHERINE WENKEL Hooked KAELEE BERGHUIS Boy in a Faded Black Suit JOSHUA WESTERHOLM Man of Steel

AMOS HUNT “Some people call me a hack . . .” KRISTINA ANDERSON Anniversary SANDI LINIEWICZ Morning Dew ZAKROCZYMSK DANIEL FRAMPTON Remember the Sabbath ETHAN ZLOMKE Morning Song BRAD MICHALAK Drawing of a Man JESSICA KELLER A Long Walk Home ELIZABETH NORRIS Guilt RACHEL FABRO Hungarian Ballad NEB Right Back Atcha PAMELA JUZWIK A Walk in the Dark HALLSSON MATT WHITMAN Crazy Raul AMBER STARK Small Wonder STEPHEN HULL Train Ride JEREMY ALESSI Collective AILEEN TOROLA First Steps MELISSA MUNNS An Evening With Grandpa JASON SCHILLER The Last Days of Innocence

29 31 32 33 34 36 37 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 48 49 50 52 53 54

MARIE ZUERCHER My Mattress, Like Unto SINGLETON My Lover: A Sonnet CONTRIBUTORS

STEPHEN REICHERT

INTRODUCTION

Twenty years. A landmark, a time to reflect and celebrate. As a graduate of Trinity and a former editor of The Trillium, I take great pleasure in introducing this special anniversary issue.

For the past twenty years, through the dedication of faculty advisors and student editors, The Trillium has established a tradition of collecting the finest creative efforts of Trinity students and presenting them in an aesthetically pleasing for-mat. For the aspiring writers and artists on campus, The Trillium has provided a medium through which their work can be dis-covered by fellow classmates. Each issue has offered students a glimpse into the creative minds of their peers. This is a truly unique opportunity for both the creators and their audience.

Within the pages of this “best of the best” issue, you will enjoy voices that are as rich and various as their preoccupations. From the skilled use of traditional poetics, “Like houseguests ferreting away the host’s finest silver,” to the inventive syntax found in poems such as “Anniversary”; from the well-crafted meter in the clever poem, “Shall I Compare Thee,” to the evocative pulse of the city found in “Guilt,” the poetry in this collection draws on the traditional as well as the innovative.

In the pieces gathered here, students grapple with human nature and its common predicament. Whether expressed in playful and insightful commentary on such issues as women’s bangs—an “aesthetically reprehensible phenomenon that tends to destroy the whole style of otherwise decent-looking women”—or the anatomy of Starbucks, or in the more intimate and earnest images found in “An Evening with Grandpa” and “A Walk in the Dark,” you will find authentic voices that captivate and challenge the reader.

The stories are riveting in their imagery and emotional tension. Their authors have successfully struck the rich resources of human experience. You will encounter a range of delights from the dazzling image of the streetlights “painting the green leaves in yellow, while the moon fought to wash them in silver,” to the somber picture of homeless persons who would be “perfectly harmless if they were asleep.” This special issue of The Trillium contains a collection that represents the unique, creative efforts of Trinity students, both past and present. As members of the larger Trinity community, current and former students should be proud of the works that appear here. Enjoy!

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 1

DR. BERNARD STEIN

THE ETHICS OF CHRISTIAN AESTHETICS Ever since my arrival at Trinity International University, I feel that I have been systematically desensitized by prolonged exposure to students with substandard aesthetic criteria. Of course, one encounters these sorts of people wherever one goes, but to an alarming degree at Christian colleges, and particularly Trinity. Upon entering any of the local high schools, one would immediately be bombarded by the “fly” (aesthetically pleasing) women. Unfortunately, this is not the case at our beloved school. In this article, I will attempt to shed light on the motivation for aesthetic apathy and inform the reader of the ethical implica-tions of such a state. First I feel that a distinction needs to be made between fashion and aesthetic standards. Fashion standards, on the one hand, change all the time. As a matter of fact, the current fashion standard allows for a wide variety of styles. Perhaps this tolerance provides a partial explanation for the unashamed emergence of “bangs” on this campus. In any case, bangs are an aesthetically reprehensible phenomenon that tends to destroy the whole style of otherwise decent-looking women. Aesthetic standards, on the other hand, do not change. As I have stated, fashion standards and aesthetic standards are not synonymous, but they sometimes overlap. For example, one could truthfully say that excessive body piercings are in fashion, but it is also acceptable by current fashion standards to remain unpierced. Likewise, a hairstyle whose symmetry is violently interrupted by the presence of bangs is just as acceptable as any other hairstyle by current fashion standards. However, by aesthetic standards, excessive body piercings and mall bangs are absolutely unacceptable. Although most of Trinity’s students have only a concern for fashion standards (and many don’t even have that), I would argue that fashion standards are often irrelevant. As I have shown, fashion standards still allow for quite a number of aesthetically reprehensible styles. What is morally imperative, then, is that our appearance be in accord with aesthetic criteria. At this point, I would like to point out that these criteria are perhaps far more numerous than the average person realizes. In the above paragraph, I have only given two examples of bad taste. I could devote an entire book to the subject. However, in the interest of remaining within the bounds that this article permits me, I will say only that if you have any questions about

________________________________________________________________ 2 • THE TRILLIUM

this topic, you should see me personally. Judging from the number of violations I witness daily on campus, I expect to be seeing many of you soon. My task is now twofold. First I will describe why aesthetic standards have been sacrificed by many Christians, and then I will explain why it is immoral to do so. After much intense thought and careful analysis, I think I have isolated the psychological factors that play into the actions of aesthetic violators. First, there are those who are completely ignorant of the aesthetic standards. Initially, it seems that these people have an excuse. If they are not aware of the standards, how can they be expected to abide by them? However, we must quickly realize that this is poor reasoning, because whether or not one is aware of the standards, everyone else must suffer the negative effects of his or her violations (we will discuss these negative effects in a later paragraph). One might ask, “How can one be ignorant of standards that seem so intuitively obvious to the average intellect?” In secular society, the answer is that men and women are blinded by their sin. However, even in secular society, there is a far larger percent of people who follow the aesthetic standards than at Trinity and other such Christian institutions. In the case of Christians, it is not a pure ignorance but a learned ignorance. That is, the knowledge of the aesthetic standards is within the intuitive grasp of any average intellect, but some choose to ignore the standards. The question is “why?” There are two prevailing reasons why Christians prefer to ignore the aesthetic standards. The first is due to a misinter-pretation of Scripture. This misunderstanding stems from the verse that says, “Do not adorn yourselves with much gold jewelry and so on . . .” (excuse the lack of a reference). This verse has traditionally been interpreted to mean that Christians should not be concerned with their appearance. However, this is an abso-lutely false interpretation, and I will explain why. In this verse, God spells out one criterion clearly and distinctly for us. Any one who has any knowledge of the aesthetic standards realizes that gold jewelry is tacky, especially much gold jewelry. Silver is preferable, and not an excessive amount. So, with that in mind, no one is justified in using this verse to explain his or her ignorance of or failure to comply with the aesthetic standards. Another verse that has often been misinterpreted is the one that says, “Do not consider his appearance; man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart.” People use this verse to justify their ignorance of or failure to comply with aesthetic standards as well. This is especially disturbing to me because it is a classic demonstration of how people are willing to take Bible verses out of context in order to prove a certain

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 3

point. First, we must realize that God was talking to Samuel in this specific instance. This is not a general prescription for how we are to conduct our human affairs. Second, God was giving Samuel instructions on how to choose a king. When electing a leader, we cannot base our decision solely on the fact that the leader complies at least with minimal aesthetic standards. This is only one factor that plays into the equation. He must also have a superior intellect and meet other moral standards. David, on the other hand, met all of the standards (let’s not forget that he was handsome and ruddy as the Bible says). Third, we have a phenomenology of human perception right within this text. Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart. What a wonderful summary of the way in which we are able to perceive the “other.” We can only see the outward appearance, whereas God can look inward and from any which angle that he pleases. This verse is not telling us to ignore appearances and look at hearts, for this is impossible. This verse is merely an accurate statement of our limitations as humans. Because of the fact that we can’t ignore outward appearance, the moral imperative to abide by aesthetic standards gains its absolute necessity. The second prevailing reason why Christians often choose to ignore aesthetic standards is a fear of shallow relationships. They are afraid that if they look good, people will want to date them and/or marry them for this reason alone. My response to this is that if a person has such a non-personality that looks are the only reason that a person would marry them, then they deserve the person who would marry them for this reason alone. If, on the other hand, the person was attractive and had an interesting personality, then they wouldn’t have to worry about people that only liked them for looks, because any person who only loves looks is characterized by a lack of personality and could never satisfy a person who had an interesting personality. So we see that this is a false fear. Finally, I will discuss the negative effects of aesthetic violations and the ethical necessity to comply with the aesthetic standards. As previously demonstrated, human beings necessarily look at outward appearances. This is an unavoidable fact of life unless you are blind, or unless you walk around with your eyes shut. Anyhow, as most of us prefer to live with our eyes open, we cannot help but see other people. If we are systematically exposed to others who violate aesthetic standards, one of two things invariably occurs. Either 1) we become desensitized and end up compromising our values in regard to aesthetic standards, or 2) we experience that sort of nausea that occurs from exposure to aesthetically reprehensible phenomena. Everyone becomes partially desensitized over time,

________________________________________________________________ 4 • THE TRILLIUM

but those with acute moral senses, such as myself, are still able to maintain a healthy feeling of nausea. I refer to my nausea as a healthy feeling only because it indicates that my immune system is still intact. However, I would much rather experience the joy of beholding aesthetically pleasing people than nausea. If I can will that everyone avoids nausea, then it becomes an absolute imperative. I think that this is a reasonable thing to will, and it genuinely comes from good will. Only perverse sinners enjoy nausea. Therefore, it is morally imperative that everyone abide by the aesthetic standards. Once again, if you are not sure whether or not you are abiding by them, please see me and spare the rest of us any potential future nausea. There is one final topic I wish to discuss. It is a known fact that many students view Trinity International University as a marriage farm. As revolting and demoralizing as I find this idea, I cannot deny that a female companion would be nice. However, I feel that the general attitude of aesthetic apathy on this campus is a sin against such persons as myself, whose options are severely limited as a direct result. For this reason especially, I implore those who have any sense of decency to do something about your style. I realize that not everyone can be good looking, but there are certain steps that most people need to take to be closer to the ideal. Far be it from me to say that no one on this entire campus meets the primary criteria. The problem is that there aren’t nearly enough of these people. So to those of you who have achieved total “flyness,” I salute you. To those who have deliberately avoided flyness, go, and sin no more.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 5

KAELEE BERGHUIS

THE HAZE EVER SO THICK

________________________________________________________________ 6 • THE TRILLIUM

MARTA MCDONALD HARDACRE

STRETCH MARKS now to open books would be harder than pushing my hands through telephones to touch your face— your face too far from my reach for me to handle. I am here on this bed too high above ground for my feet to touch carpet, too soft on my body for my head to lift and my hand to hit hard the incessant beeping of that awful invention—alarm: is all I feel when I catch myself here, so many stares away from where I am smooth not rough like I am here rough like my voice in the morning and my face at night when I am too tired for softness this is too far, much too far and I can feel it stretching me across these states of mind and fields and roads away from comfort where I feel no stretch.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 7

SARAH FOWLER MCCAMMON

THIEVERY Stealthily we crept into each other’s lives Imperceptibly and silently. Neither of us breathed a word Lest we arouse the alarms within the other. Gently we tiptoed about, Careful to disturb nothing, All the while observing, appraising, desiring. Day after day we stayed Perfecting plots Constructing towers of trust: Like houseguests ferreting away the host’s finest silver, Each taking what we knew the other possessed But would not willingly give.

________________________________________________________________ 8 • THE TRILLIUM

CHRISTOPHER MCCAMMON

AN ANATOMY OF STARBUCKS

I am the scholar in residence at Starbucks, downtown Arlington Heights branch. The following is an apology—in the classical sense—and explanation of why this is so. Starbucks offers the penultimate habitat of the true Sunday-afternoon sophisticate. In cases where the said sophisticate has not reached sufficient self-awareness, the Starbucks environ-ment comes to the rescue by heaping praise on just-the-kind-of-person-you-must-be. Obviously you are intelligent; otherwise you wouldn’t dare lift your eyes to a menu board that strongly resembles a technical manual of some sort, but one that for some reason is written in a hodge-podge of Romantic languages. Yes, you are intelligent—and urbane, cultured. The music which permeates the Starbucks atmosphere provides constant opportunity to prove this: “I really don’t like early Dylan,” you say. “Oh, that aria is from Die Zauberflote . . . I beg your pardon, The Magic Flute.” You are adventurous: “Explore, Experience, Enjoy” invites an ad for exotic coffee beans, while below you on the table a rough-sketched tribesman cavorts in bas-relief. And not just any beverage, warm or cold, will please one so traveled and worldly-wise. Obviously, if you are to be tempted to indulge in Tazo Tea, it must be of “amazing delicacy, complexity, and strength.” Why? Because you are tanked to the gills with amazing delicacy, complexity, and strength. But for all this, you are simple of heart—a confirmed domestic. Thus the poster above the condiment bar offers you a caramel apple cider “Because you can’t drink a fuzzy sweater.” “No kidding and thank God,” say I. Of course, watching over all is the ubiquitous bi-finned mermaiden with her cryptic stare, lending a quasi-religious aspect to your surroundings. In the last days, you have heard, this very fish-wife will be printed in invisible ink on every right hand and forehead, and Starbucks will raise 666 to a more reasonable $7.95. But that’s okay. This doesn’t feel like a Last Day. So you smile, of course, and go on drinking a Grande-No-Foam-Extra-Hot-Seven-Pump-Tchai-Latte.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 9

KRISTIAN CARLSON

GRACIE Randolph looked helplessly at the white house across the pasture. Monday’s breeze had put vigor in his bones and a thirst for more of spring’s fresh, moist air. Today, Wednesday, the blustering March winds chilled him and made him feel more alone. A silvery calf lay shivering and wheezing before his feet. It was just two months ago, he thought, that his father and he had jumped in Old Red, hitched up the horse trailer and gone to the sale barn. He had run up and down the catwalks with other kids, and looked down at the hundreds of cattle to be sold. The barn sagged under the aroma of pungent cow pies filled with sugary grain. He and dad would pick out just one from the peppered mass of split hooves. They chose a 3-year-old cream-silver Charlais, whose bulging belly and loose backside gave away telltale signs of heavy pregnancy. “Owner tells me she’s a good one and bred back to a right big Charlais bull who’s known for his silver calve-easy babies,” the auctioneer advertised to the jury-like buyers. Dad had agreed and had whispered to him, “She’ll calve a fine one, Randi. Look at the thickness there on her flank and how her teats are swollen⎯look, she’s gentle even in this auction room.” Two weeks later, the cow had borne a tall, silvery heifer with a white patch under her neck. That was the end of January. The baby was small but strong. She took to her momma fast and had been growing well despite the cold, until just last week when she took sick. Randolph looked down at her. Get up. C’mon. He knelt down by the calf and rubbed its soft, now muddied, hide. He shook her. “C’mon calfee, move.” The calf exhaled, slid her eyes open, and looked his direction. She was beautiful and someday she was going to calve for him. “It’s gonna be O.K. girl,” he said, “you’re gonna be fine, um . . .” The calf’s tongue rolled out sandpapery and swollen. You’ve got to eat! He hurried to the old shed and grabbed a large bottle with a big orange-brown nipple. Throwing in some sweet powered milk formula, he ran to the well and filled the bottle. He shook the bottle, shivering as he made his way back to Gracie⎯that was the name he called her. He lifted the calf’s head and inserted the nipple. No response. “You’ve gotta eat something, Gracie, or you’ll . . .” He

________________________________________________________________ 10 • THE TRILLIUM

massaged her mouth with the nipple inserted and forced the calf to a sucking motion. He pulled on the bottle to force fluid out of it. She’s drinking. Randi was breathing heavily now, with a firm face and tight smile. He continued his work. The calf was passive and limp. Forcing the bottle back into the calf’s mouth caused the runny, creamy fluid she had supposedly ingested to cascade out of her mouth and onto the straw floor of the large lean-to that covered them both. “Get up, Gracie!” said Randolph with a loud command. “Move!” Labored breath was the only response she gave him. He pushed the calf. She’s gonna die if she doesn’t get blood moving through her body. He heaved up the diarrhea-stained frame and held her between his legs as she tottered and wheezed. Randolph, half picking up the calf, tried moving her to force a walking motion. He let go, and she slumped to the floor. Get up. Get up, girl. “Get up!” Randi’s boot connected hard with the calf’s ribs. There was a dull thud. The calf winced from his kick. He raised his foot again⎯he would make her get up. Instead the boy fell onto the delicate mat of failing flesh and sobbed.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 11

KELLI BOWLDEN

AN ODE TO MY TATTOO

O, bright ink, permanent pigmentation, let thy passion permeate,

pumping through my veins to keep my youth as stationary as thou. Sag not, fade not, and let me, neither.

May the needle inject the spontaneousness that brought me beneath it

and please, oh, please, let me never doubt the impulse that imprinted you.

________________________________________________________________ 12 • THE TRILLIUM

RUBY THOMAS

SHALL I COMPARE THEE Shall I compare thee to a wintry day? Hardly—thou art not nearly so much fun. Snow men, snow wars, and other wintry play Cheer winter’s drear, but not you, my dull one. Shall I compare thee to the autumn then And fall’s bold colors claim to see in thee? Why, autumn’s red and golden hues I ken, But ken not, pale dear, where in you they be. Or shall I praise thy youth and beauty fair With mention of the new-blown flowers of spring? ‘ Twould be both sentimental and unfair To say this obviously untrue thing. One season only I did not essay And must compare thee to a summer’s day.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 13

ANN EBERHARDT

CONCERNING BEING To the divine being (the one who sits on the throne in unapproachable splendor): I was told how you made something out of nothing and then sculpted man out of mud (enlivened by a gust of wind). But, why was your mighty breath deigned for this mixture of spittle and dirt? What good did you see? It’s not that I complain at the flexing of my limbs. Only I would like to know: What of me is mud and what is breath? Mud’s rich sliminess feels good squished between my bare toes. But breath? At leaving my mouth it invisibly intermingles, intersects— lost in the leaves of an oak or the ripples of a lake yet still a part, moving through them or in them. And, somehow, your breath is lost in me. Intermingling, it shapes the brown slime that cools toes into something good, and even, perhaps, something beautiful. Still I am left seeking your lost breath, the breath that was lost in me.

________________________________________________________________ 14 • THE TRILLIUM

RANDY HOFBAUER

THE SILENCE Walls in the subway tunnel below Madison Street were cracking away and flaking as gothic walls should. Well, they weren’t really gothic, but they were walls. It made you feel enclosed underground inside a rumbling sarcophagus that didn’t face refuge until the next line came down. People would make their transfers, but before arrivals; it was a devastating wait. He sat there at around one in the morning with barely anyone else, let alone anyone who was sober. After a night walking the streets with friends, going out for a couple drinks at an Irish pub nearby, he’d decided to take the subway back home. Chicago systems can be hell to get through at times. There was always the risk of meeting up with unsavory people and getting mugged or shot in the face, like an unfortunate soul did the other day. But the worst part was the wait in a tiny empty area below ground that contained only a few lights to illuminate your path. He saw a bum here and there sleeping on the nearby benches and stayed a bit away, though they were perfectly harmless if they were asleep. They didn’t ask for money anyway; the ones who had money did. But he faced this silence in question of a night of filthy living and testing to see if God really existed. It was a question that you couldn’t push too far; you might go over the edge. Speaking of edges, it was only a few days before that a woman decided to leap to her death onto a track in front of an oncoming line. When those types of things happen, pieces of their body shoot up onto the side of the rails and the walkway. They need to get the paramedics down there (which takes forever with those turnstiles and such to get through) and they always end up dead for sure when they’re found. Then there’s the whole ordeal of putting white cloth over the mess left over so that no one who’s on the train, or getting on, for that matter, sees it. Some people he knew, knew some people that knew the woman. She’d apparently grown sick of the idea that she didn’t hear God speaking in her life. Because of the constant frustration of sin and silence, she decided to take the ultimate step and take away something that she thought God had given her. But she assumed that now he didn’t exist . . . or that he let her take over her own life. Like it mattered, anyway. God had plenty more to worry about than one single person’s life. The light flickered above him as he leaned up against a post, contemplating these things. He’d always tested God but never

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 15

questioned if he was actually there. There was practically no noise in the tunnel. He kept thinking he’d heard a small metallic cling of the tracks way down, but those were just wishful thoughts. He didn’t know where the train was and kept on wondering until he realized his watch had been set back five minutes. The guy who made the watch must’ve been a fool; it already sped up to what was now three minutes back instead of five. So now he could be fashionably two minutes late. It was a risk, but one of those things you gotta accept at times with mechanical watches. They were so complex, still. One of the bums lying ten feet from him turned around on the bench and grunted. It seemed inconceivable to actually be able to toss and turn on a bench, but he did it. “Experience, I guess.” There it was! A clang echoing way down the tunnel . . . no, it was just his mind playing tricks again. By this time he was wanting it so bad, he could feel it in his bones. He could feel the rattling and the shaking that he so longed for. He wanted to exit this dismal underground sanctuary; it was beginning to grow on him. He could picture the bums being stirred awake and coming after him like in those monster movies, wanting to feed on him and . . . well, his mind was getting the better of him. A rat ran right past his foot when he moved it and accidentally bumped into it. His feet were beginning to ache as he waited and he started to whistle a tune under his lips, attempting to destroy the silence he so loathed. One of the bums grunted louder and he suddenly remembered he wasn’t alone. Well, the train wasn’t here but these urban peons were. But the silence was still killing his mind. He felt like he just needed the sound of someone speaking, singing, even just moaning or agitated. Not to mention that his bag that hung about his shoulder felt as if it was gaining weight. The graffiti on the wall was all symbols and names he couldn’t recognize. Plus, you had your typical sharpie writing on some of the tiled areas that just said slanderous things or phone numbers “for a good time.” But as he looked closer, he discovered the Nietzschean phrase “God is dead” inscribed on the wall. He suddenly came to understand the quote a little more now that he actually had the chance to read it in this light. There weren’t ever many people who could prove to you that God was alive through anything down here. You’d have those folks complaining on the subway cars out loud that “The Bush Administration is lowering job opportunities and raising your taxes for world domination!” that made you want to shout out, “Geez, I wouldn’t have voted for him if I had known THAT!” It had to be faced and noticed; he felt like he was one step closer to

________________________________________________________________ 16 • THE TRILLIUM

hell. How ironic, the location, too. Hallucinations could happen down here, too. I mean, you had your general speed freak crowd down here, all the addicts and skeletons that hung around. But when you were down here long enough, you got lightheaded. It was the feeling of sinking down, like the room was, like he was. He looked around and noticed burning cinders falling from the ceiling onto the tracks as he heard a chopping sound of metal in the back of the tunnel. Small flickers of light and fire would come from the darkness that you could not see beyond . . . but he shook his head and comprehended the situation. He needed to assume the mirage. It was still just a dark station underground with a tunnel on each side of him, left and right with an opening from side to side. He wondered if it was a prison or something, if the trains actually didn’t come when you didn’t pay (he had jumped the turnstile) but then cleared his head of the nonsense because it’s not like this was his first time. God, where was the sound? It was still completely silent and he wondered whether his ears would pop. His brain was screaming like mad and his heart beat faster with every groan . . . it was so closed in here! Was that it? That noise . . . no, it was his imagination again. He wondered if the train maybe wasn’t going to come for him, or maybe that it once existed but died long ago. Or maybe the concept of train traveling had since been disproved by educated physicists and engineers. Who knows? It had been hours since he came uptown on it; it wasn’t farfetched at all! Okay, it surely was—just not something easy to accept as false. The bum tossed again and grunted even louder but not quite killing the silence. It was so human, so fleshly. The man was agitated in his sleep; perhaps he was dreaming of better times . . . or worse times or whatever he could be dreaming of. Where was the train?!!!! He looked at the tracks, merely a way for the train to arrive, shouting, “Speak, damn you, SPEAK! Kill this silence, murder this stillness! Are you mute or are you an idiot child?” He was displeased with the outcome as nothing happened at all. It had already been a half hour and no train had arrived and he was stranded in the Madison subway station, no one around except the two bums, grunting and turning to the sound of . . . well, nothing. Nothing at all was happening and no noise was there to bring hope, to bring peace. He stood up and walked over to the wall again, reading the graffiti, reading Nietzsche and sighing at modern culture, smacking his back against the wall and sliding down until he hit the floor, sitting beneath the überman.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 17

KRISTINA ANDERSON

PLEAS(E) This isn’t what I was looking for I never thought you’d leave me at the door way and abandon the purpose for us to get her is all you wanted Was that your goal from day one? Or after you discovered I didn’t fit your ideal you never could settle on anything realistically I should be the one turning around and putting you behind my back wards is how you think and decipher don’t pour your pathetic anguish on my me ok, Einstein, get yourself out of this one I’m warning you two get out of my face three FORGET IT

________________________________________________________________ 18 • THE TRILLIUM

BILLY REEVES

AMERICAN LOVE I Love You, I Love You, I Love You Ow! You stepped on my toe for this I will leave and never look back. My pinky toe is bruised, you worthless pig. I hate you. I love you, I love you, I love you But you keep me from bowling and I keep you from work. Things were not meant to be, fishing and work must come first. I hate you. I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! Eh, I’ve lost interest. It’s just boring. We, and by we I mean you, have simply grown mundane. I’m apathetic to you and that’s worse than hate. I love you I love you I swear but I have to find myself. You’ve stifled my creativity with your children and I need to feel free. I resent you, no wait, I must hate you.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 19

JEREMY ALESSI

TET Paint their hearts purple And pin them on chests. Bleed their names; Hero, Courage, and Valor Making them noble. Wrap their nightmares In presentable tins And send them Like cookies on Christmas. Light their skies. Blind them only by surprise, Forcing their memory back To the mud-stuck-birth Of ’69. Fetch them now. Their still small pay; The unemployment checks; Funding trips to the wall.

________________________________________________________________ 20 • THE TRILLIUM

DANIEL J. TODD

FROM “THE CHRONICLES OF HERMAN CLOWN,” CHAPTER III The first time I met Herman Clown I was still a young man. There was a tree in a park just east of Fickett Street; a large roundish tree it was which stood proud near the fountain. In those days it was a habit of mine to spin by on a bike or just walk past in the grass to see the tree and rinse my feet in the fountain. It was roundest and fattest at night when it took the form of a pear-shaped woman. The streetlights had a time of painting the green leaves in yellow, while the moon fought to wash them in silver. By day the tree was left exposed, even naked. One could look right through her limbs and leaves and catch the sky’s color on the other side. But at night she was solid and bulbous, a swelling, swaying mass. My watch read 7:32 a.m. as I stepped out of Hub’s Grocery with a sack of grapes and made my way for the park. The sun was already poking its way between the buildings. Its light reflected off the dewy grass and shrubs. The pavement was still wet. The trees were sagging like heavy breasts. My feet got wet in the sun-sparkled grass as I neared the drooping tree. I felt myself begin to droop at the sight of it. And then I saw a man in a cape, face down in the grass at the foot of the tree, drunk. I passed him by and walked to the fountain. The park was often littered with drunkards so it was no surprise to see the man. The surprise came when my feet were already rinsing in the cold fountain water and my teeth were munching busily on the grapes. I had nearly forgotten about the drunk man when I was startled by a sudden splash in the fountain. It was he. The drunk man had thrown himself into the fountain head first. I dropped my grapes into the water. He surfaced like a wet cat, poised and expressionless. His cat eyes followed the grapes as they swam to the bottom of the fountain. He smiled with wet lips and laughed. I took a good look at him and he at me. His wet hair had formed to the shape of his head like a swimming cap. I smiled and shook my head at the sight in disbelief as he did the same. I was amazed at what had just happened as he was still amazed at how the grapes had sunk. He spoke first. “Do you believe in poetry?” were his words. I maintained a coy grin as I noticed his ears. “Why do you ask?” I said, genuinely wondering why he had asked such a thing. “Because what I saw last night was fit for fine poetry,” he

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 21

replied. At this point I was very interested in what the man had to say, though I figured he was drunk. “Why were you face down in the grass?” I asked. “That’s not important,” was his response. He then began his story, which I will try to retell as best I can in his words. “What does it matter whether I slept in the tree or in the grass or even in my bed? Now listen up. You see that tree there? I been comin’ to see her every night now this summer—almost twenty-six nights now I think. If you get up high enough, right up there near the top, see? See that crotch comin’ out the top? If you can get up there the moon’ll let ya see all kinds of colors you’ve never ever seen before. I’ve seen her wear a purple cape. I’ve seen harvest orange and green valleys. She got shadows, man. They fall in valleys like sinking ships. They sink just like me. I can’t jump, see, so I climb. Been climbin’ this lady tree all summer long. Only fallen out twice. Each time the moon came down. I tell ya, it did.” At this the man leapt from the fountain and spilled across the grass where he found his cigarettes below the tree. He came back with one in his mouth—out the side burning easy about its own smoke. He crawled slowly back into the water where I was turning over his last comment about the moon “coming down.” “What did you mean ‘the moon came down’?” I said inquisitively. His head jerked left, then right. His eyes found the ripples about my knees. His eyebrows seemed to expand. His ears paced with anticipation as if anxious to hear what would fall from his mouth. He stared me in the left eye and continued. “The moon came down, boy. That it did, yes sir. I had my arse lodged nicely in that little crotch up there. I was singing.” His voice quickly rose up over the fountain trickle. “Though I know that evening’s empire has returned into the sand . . .” The words curled up in the water’s sparkle. He looked down and told me he could see Mr. Dylan swimming in between my toes. I laughed and he said, “Vanished from me hand, left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.” His lips closed as my smile vanished. He continued. “I sang boy. I tell ya I sang. Even when I forgot the words I sang anyway. And the moon heard me. It came down. It did. I watched it burn through a cloud. The leaves I hid myself in shook themselves. Some took cover in my pants. I saw one jump out and grab the wind which was making for the lake. The light fell on me like paint. Like a can of silver paint dumped on my head. It dripped off my nose and made puddles in the leaves. The sky became like ice, but white, like snow I guess, but colored in thirty shades of silver. I trembled with the leaves. It was a jig we

________________________________________________________________ 22 • THE TRILLIUM

did as I stood up with balance. By now I had a dead limb in my hand like a microphone. I sang into the stick about smoke rings and a tambourine. And the moon came. And soon it was all I saw. No kiddin’. Up, down, the light came like applause. It came spinning. It came like a wave breaking through the entire sky. Then it slowed. Then it stopped, hovering motionless about my head. I dropped the stick. I let out a ‘yip.’ I stood on my toes. I moved my head into the moon dust, caressing it with my fingers. It swallowed my hand, then my wrist and forearm. My face sank into the moon. And then I kissed her.” The man with the story looked down giddily into the water and then to the tree and then to the day moon which swam above the treetops. I thought for sure this man was drunk when his eyes like fire flickered a laugh which shot me a shiver. He was either drunk and crazy or he actually had seen the moon. There was no way a man sober could tell a story like that with such conviction and power. I stared at the man, wet and smoking. He was even smiling, happy to have someone to share his experience with. I shook my head and laughed, “What is your name, sir?” “Why do you laugh, sir?” was his reply. I certainly didn’t want to offend the drunkard so I said, “I just didn’t know the moon was a Dylan fan, that’s all.” He smiled, “Yah, me either. The name’s Herman Clown and I was a captain once.” He spoke happily enough and I knew better than to challenge his story’s truth. I swallowed it like gum. He stood like a wet clown in the fountain and stretched out his hand and I took it. There was strength and truth in his grip. He thanked me for my ears and bid me farewell as he cut through the grass and chased a duck up the avenue. I stepped out of the fountain in wet boots. Water spilled out a toehole. I took a breath of sunlight and stepped through the grass toward the tree. The man’s story was kicking at my stomach as if the gum I swallowed had grown legs. Part of me almost wished it to be true as I watched the day moon above the trees. And part of me almost knew it was true as I shook his hand and watched the grapes careen in the fountain. “Herman Clown,” I whispered half hoping the tree might hear me. “Captain of what?” I questioned as my foot kicked something. I reached down and pulled from the grass a bottle of brandy, full, unopened.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 23

KRISTINA ANDERSON

WATER FALLS bare-footed summers weathered and worn toes ankles heels during the shady part of the day i sit at the edge of your mind dangling my feet in your thoughts smiling in the reflection of your daydreams glimmer glimmer an iridescent shimmer winks back at me

________________________________________________________________ 24 • THE TRILLIUM

SARAH FOWLER MCCAMMON

SYMPATHY I’m sorry That you were wounded. The tendons must have throbbed As they were torn. Must have been torture To try to walk again. I can imagine How it hurt. But I am also sorry That I was your crutch To be leaned on, Then cast aside; To be needed, And discarded. Next time I’ll send you a get-well card.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 25

CATHERINE WENKEL

HOOKED

________________________________________________________________ 26 • THE TRILLIUM

KAELEE BERGHUIS

BOY IN A FADED BLACK SUIT My greatest encounter with myself tends to be in the simplest moment that I always rush and desire later

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 27

JOSHUA WESTERHOLM

MAN OF STEEL I possess the mutant ability to turn my skin into solid iron

And all the grim torrents of life (which I tell you quite frankly, are spit)

have no option but to fall on the impenetrable surface, glancing off and

falling, reactionless, to the ground. The noise of their impacts, you realize, make no jubilant

melody or resounding tintinnabulation; rather (remember this!) they make a

hardly noticed but nonetheless intimidating Clong! against the iron hide my

special abilities have made impervious to even the most worthy foe.

This is no jointed plate or carefully woven mail, mind you! It is impassable!

A solid and painless metal skin! There are no chinks to leave me vulnerable to attack!

My ears are sealed by a cold metal plate! My eyes are covered with a completely opaque shield!

I am not vulnerable (I mean it!) I can put up the shield,

compliments of my mutant ability, anytime I like,

and no matter how cold or anesthetized it leaves me, you can’t get in and I can’t get out.

________________________________________________________________ 28 • THE TRILLIUM

AMOS HUNT

“SOME PEOPLE CALL ME A HACK . . .”

Some people call me a hack, because of my job. But I’m not a hack, I want you all to know that. I work hard and take deep pride in everything I write. Oh, I know that in a hundred years, after I’ve grown old and been dead of cancer or Alzheimer’s for a while, my work will all have faded away and my name will be forgotten. That’s the criterion everyone likes to use. The test of time, you know: if it dies, it was worthless.

Survival is, of course, the greatest virtue. You’ve got to live as long as you can and leave your mark on the world when you go, so your soul has a place to live. As if you’re planning to come back and collect it when you’ve got a chance.

I wrote a piece once for a funeral. My clients were acquainted (as is usually the case), and had agreed that one would insult the other at the funeral. It sounded like an interesting challenge, so I took the job.

I kept it very low key for the most part, just small talk. The turning point came when the script called for the first man to light a cigarette.

The second man (a close friend of the deceased) pointed and said, “You know, that’s a sign of weakness.”

Then the first man said, “So is death.” It was just a joke, of course, but the close friend took it really

seriously, like the other guy had called his mother a whore. He wouldn’t speak to him for months.

“Man,” he said to me the next time I saw him—he came in with his girlfriend to plan a break-up less than a week later; the poor guy’s life was going to pieces—“You are good. I am really pissed off!”

So I’m keeping that one on file, in case I ever need it again. A pretty obscure scenario, but it’s good to have a diverse repertoire. Or maybe I’m just too proud of it to throw it away. But someone will throw it away, someday, and all of the other collected conversations boxed away in my house. Or perhaps I will have to do it myself. I can think of no acceptable alternative. There is (thank God) no Society for the Preservation of Conversations to keep my work in a sterile glass case for future generations to stare at. I might hand everything down, as do so many in my profession, to an apprentice, but I don’t want that; listen, this ball of conversations grows as it is passed down from heir to heir and soon all the eventualities are covered and you end up with people everywhere repeating the same lines over

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 29

and over. I think this may already be happening and it cannot be good. The world is readily becoming a very static place because of words that will not die. I am not writing for posterity. I write because that is my craft, because I love to see something that I have wrought with my own hands, to know that for a brief time it will come to life before it passes forever into oblivion. I confess that I make a killing at it, but, as I have little need to spend my earnings and no desire to keep them, I often donate them to worthy parties who ask for them. I like to give money to craftsmen who cannot otherwise afford to do their work. You might call me a philanthropist, but I don’t think that’s what I am. I simply love beauty and love to increase its presence in the world. Is philaesthetist a word? It should be. When I was young, I had a very professional attitude toward my work. I took every job I could and always gave people exactly what they wanted. Nowadays that doesn’t seem so important. I mostly just take the jobs that are the most interesting, and I surprise the customers often; sometimes they don’t like that. A few months back there was a boy who had a date with this girl he was really crazy about, and they agreed to come to me because he was afraid of not having anything to say. So I wrote up a script in which he had lots of things to say. Thing was, the girl didn’t. I had her speak only once, to order Pasta Alfredo. So the poor kid memorized these pages and pages of lines I’d given him, but the girl wouldn’t open her mouth to anything he said. He came storming into my office the next day to demand his money back. “You sold me half a conversation,” he said. “Then I’ll give you half your money back.” “Don’t joke around with me,” he was fuming. “You really messed this one up. I was counting on you.” “How did the date go?” “Well . . . good, but only after I threw out your worthless script.” “So you should have been counting on yourself.” I gave him his money back. I am not a hack. The only real hacks are those who want to live forever, and believe they can. Sell-outs to the hope of immortality, they trudge along fending off death and never bothering at all about life. And fill the world all the while with words that, like them, refuse to die.

________________________________________________________________ 30 • THE TRILLIUM

KRISTINA ANDERSON ANNIVERSARY

What do diamonds do to a marriage

? What do flowers do to a relationship

? What do long walks do to a friendship

? What does writing about them

do ?

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 31

SANDI LINIEWICZ ZAKROCZYMSK

MORNING DEW

________________________________________________________________ 32 • THE TRILLIUM

DANIEL FRAMPTON

REMEMBER THE SABBATH Blur TALK NOISE billboards everywhere I look, I can’t escape faster, cut the corner, step there, smile and nod faster, write it down, check the clock, power walk someone critiques your timeliness you burn with bitter ice self-employed to every lesser god Five days later, you notice you are. Five seconds later, you forget. Obligation, not motivation. Skill, not passion Busy work The one who created Heaven and earth Lord of Hosts wild glory, depth of stars rests.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 33

ETHAN ZLOMKE

MORNING SONG The world is grey, all the color leeched away by time and wind and wave. Above, the sky holds a myriad of colors, always changing. From hour to hour its dress changes, black to red to purest blue, then as the sun sets a host of purples and yellows and peaches. The sea holds colors in its depths as well, closer than the sky, but just as lost. Greens and blues and purples here and there. Even when it rests and grows stagnant, it still retains its hold on the colors. Only the world is grey, a thousand, thousand shades, some almost white, others close to black. Pouch sighs and unfolds his legs until he is standing. He looks out from the hilltop towards the sea. “Perhaps.” It is all he has ever said. The village has been there three hundred years, and Pouch was there when men first came to his plain near the sea. He was there when they returned with their wives and children. Every generation born there has known the singer; they have never been without his call. He begins to move, walking at first, pace gradually quickening. Soon he is a blur. He stops far from the village walls, on a hilltop, and raises his unnaturally long arms to the stars. He begins to sing. One by one the stars wink out and the sky brightens until the horizon burns with the approach of the sun. Three hundred years have passed and the village elders still debate whether Pouch brings the sun, or the sun brings Pouch. To him, it doesn’t matter. He sings. The sun crests the horizon and the ground begins to quake, outward from where he stands singing. Around the hill, jagged stone teeth appear, the bones of the world, to jut upward and grow towards the coloring sky. Higher they grow, and higher still. The orb of the sun rises complete and the harmony stops. Another monolith stands. Across the grey plains are hundreds of these monuments to the sun. The mountains and hills hold thousands more. Rays of golden light strike the grey dirt. More still strike the ruddy skin of the singer. The circular tattoos on chest and back begin to glow with an inner fire. Brighter and brighter, then it is suddenly gone, flowing outward along the intricate, vine-like patterns which cover his arms and wrap around his fingers. He turns his head and his sun-streaked hair flows fiercely around his shoulders. From his pouch on his white leather loincloth he takes his rings for his fingers, a band for his arm, and his fine silver chains, which dangle from the tops of his ears to his lobes. Ready for the day, he climbs over the monolith and trots toward

________________________________________________________________ 34 • THE TRILLIUM

home, his long arms brushing the ground as he leans forward. In the village the people begin to stir, awakened by the song and the shaking of the ground. For three hundred years they have risen to the song to tend their herds and trade their wares. They look out from their doorways, peer into the grey world and sigh. Today was not the day for color to return to the world. Perhaps tomorrow.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 35

BRAD MICHALAK DRAWING OF A MAN

________________________________________________________________ 36 • THE TRILLIUM

JESSICA KELLER

A LONG WALK HOME Mildee stuck out like a cow in a suburban backyard. I remember the first day she came into my Pick and Save. She had worn nylons wrinkled like an elephant’s skin around her ankles and the white sandals that made her toes peer over the edge of them. Her flowered dress was the envy of a queen bee. A silver waterfall of hair dove down her back, and her thin lips were painted like a clown. “Do you have any grapes, Sierra?” She read my nametag, pressing her clown lips together. I raised my eyebrows to ques-tion her. “You’re in a grocery store. Of course, we have grapes.” I spoke slowly. “Is your name Sierra, dear?” “Oh, let me see.” Sarcastically yanking the nametag off my faded apron, I held it before me and continued, “Hmm, I guess so.” “When my husband Fred and I were married, we honey-mooned in the Sierra mountain range.” Leaning forward as she spoke, her voice grew louder. By this time I was vexed with the old lady and I certainly didn’t want to hear about her honeymoon. “Umm, weren’t you looking for grapes?” Plastering a fake smile across my lips, I pointed toward the fruit section. “We always wanted to go back to those mountains, but unfortunately Fred passed on eleven years ago. He was a good man.” “I’m sure he was. How about these grapes?” I nodded my head slowly as if to coax a lost child. “I could show you pictures of him! I have so many pictures of him at my house. Do you want to come over today?” Taking a step away from her, I lowered my eyebrows. What was this elderly woman thinking? I had better things to do then humor this customer, especially in my off hours. “Probably not.” Returning to my slow talk I took another step back. “Oh dear me! I haven’t even introduced myself yet. I’m Mildee.” The skin on the hand she offered me was crinkled like a discarded paper. Cringing, I shook it. “My house is two streets down: 24 West Cherry Lane. It’s a gray house with olive green shutters. You can’t miss it!” Turning toward the grapes, her feet dragged leaving small skids from her shoes on the tooth-colored

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 37

floor. For two years this continued. Every day she would find me in the store and ask me a random question: usually where the bread was, or if we sold bananas. Mildee’s pale eyes looked into my jade ones during our discussions: our talks ending the same every day. “Sierra, will you come and visit me today?” “Maybe, Mildee,” had become my robotic reply. I only said it to get her to leave me alone. Clasping her hands together she would grin and hobble away. Our scripted play became a part of my day, but today was different. Glancing at my watch I slowly paced the store. I would be off in twenty minutes and Mildee had not yet made her appearance. It surprised me that I cared; Mildee had only been a nuisance, someone to roll my eyes at and a story to tell my friends. Rounding the store for the last time I slowly untied my blue apron and wadded it up. “Sam, I’m clocking out a few minutes early today.” I hollered back to my supervisor. I didn’t wait for his answer. Leaving the store, I scanned the parking lot but there was no sign of her. My feet carried me two streets down to Cherry Lane. Turning the corner I gasped. An ambulance was sitting in front of a gray house with olive green shutters. As I made my way to the house a paramedic stopped me. “Are you family?” “Of Mildee? No. Is she okay?” Standing on my toes I tried to peer into the waiting ambulance. “I’m afraid not. Mrs. Walker had a massive cardiac arrest today. I’m afraid it took her life.” The man peeled his plastic gloves off slowly like a pitcher at the end of a lost game. “You mean she’s dead?” I stuttered. “Were you a close friend?” “I was supposed to come over to her house today.” Placing his hand on my shoulder he gave it a quick squeeze and then pretended to be busy with a medical bag. Brushing past him I walked into Mildee’s house. She had invited me here hundreds of times but today was my first visit. Stumbling into her kitchen I gasped. Every spare inch was covered in food. A smorgasbord of bread littered her table and bundles of grapes and bananas covered the countertop. “She must have been crazy.” I jumped not knowing the paramedic was behind me. “I wonder why she had so much food in here.” “Not crazy.” I paused, then whispered, “just lonely.”

That day I took a long time to walk home.

________________________________________________________________ 38 • THE TRILLIUM

ELIZABETH NORRIS

GUILT Her old weathered hands feel the pulse of the city. TA TA TA TA TATUM TA TA TA TA TATUM Steadily she keeps beating the drums every day on the same corner. There she is beating those drums. Her eyes stare vacantly at nothing while her hands gaze at my soul. TA TA TA TA TATUM TA TA TA TA TATUM People hurry about her and most

don’t even see her. She’s been there so long she’s part of the city. TA TA TA TA TATUM TA TA TA TA TATUM She says nothing while each beat of the drum screams for help. Unmoving she moves me Unfeeling she feels me and penetrates me and violates me until I feel her until I see her until I hear her She is the pulse of the city.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 39

RACHEL FABRO HUNGARIAN BALLAD

________________________________________________________________ 40 • THE TRILLIUM

NEB

RIGHT BACK ATCHA

you’re so beautiful cracked in such interesting patterns

twisted so painfully, horribly and I love you in spite

I love you in hate I love you because

the ivy is growing over the crumbling brick

I’m so glad you’ve finally learned to see the pearls cast before you

give them back to me I’ll hang them in your hair

small stones perfect truths

to always and ever remind me how much I love to see you smiling

slowly astonished turning admiring

double-bouncing absorbing the light

at the mirror

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 41

PAMELA JUZWIK HALLSSON

A WALK IN THE DARK A profound complacency, tranquil serenity, placid repose. Purple water and orange sky. Perpetual patterns of hopeful prayers, the last speck of green on the horizon, fills each heart with awe. The sailor’s legend of a half second of spectacular splendor. A puddle of light in darkness, a fog-filled valley. Moon shadow and starlight, fill each crevice with mystery. Every rise and every fall of earthy undulations, give way to apprehensive curiosity. Proportions are distorted, everyday ordinaries become enchanted marvels. As I walk along the shadows of hills. So small to the world, but to me a vast expanse of wonder. The amazing details are astounding, for I cannot comprehend the magnitude of the hand that made nature phenomenal as it is. The stars scold me as I intrude into their silent ethereal

world. The crunch of the cold grass beneath my step, the euphonic cacophony of the air in my ears, a song of love of hate and fear of hope, screaming at me and I alone. Alone in the world for a moment, My moment alone. Left to contemplate everything or nothing at all; The night belongs to me.

________________________________________________________________ 42 • THE TRILLIUM

MATT WHITMAN

CRAZY RAUL

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 43

AMBER STARK

SMALL WONDER

________________________________________________________________ 44 • THE TRILLIUM

STEPHEN HULL

TRAIN RIDE God, I hate riding the train. The seats are uncomfortable, the conductors are irritating, and the sun is always hurting my eyes with searing morning light. At first I was excited about riding the train, but at first I was an idiot. I could get so much work done on it, I optimistically justified to my new wife. She knew much better. I didn’t believe her, and took this job that requires this hour-long traipse through the uglier part of the city. Tattered billboards were passing by the window, advertising television and food and other things billboards are wont to advertise. Buildings were dilapidated and all of them looked abandoned, whether or not they actually were. I actually saw a fight break out once. More specifically, I saw a man hit another man. I didn’t see what happened after that. My work sat undone in my briefcase, and my eyes drooped further. Something like thirty minutes left. I hate riding this train. For what? What compelled me to take this job? I never wanted to do this office stuff, but then I suppose I shouldn’t have gone to school to learn how to do it. No one wants to do office work. There weren’t many people riding with me. There was an old man sitting in the aisle across from me, reading a paper. He ruffled his paper loudly and his breath carried a wheeze that made me want to stand up and scream at him to clear his throat or go away. Every breath taken in and exhaled was sandpaper on my brain. There was a young woman in glasses furiously typing, her lovely features intellectually highlighted by the light of her laptop. I stared at her for a moment under my half-closed eyes. She was lovely. I imagined speaking with her, and stole glances of her shapely figure from my real seat. A padded weight hit my right side, knocking me over and kicking over my briefcase. I started awake as any living person would have. This alien lump was leaning on me, and I was pissed off. I realized the weight was a homeless man, his unshaven face grinning down at me like an idiot. “What the hell?” I said. It sounded rather less angry than I had intended, as the pressure had stomped most of the air from my lungs. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said, still grinning and leaning on me. I struggled a bit but he kept talking. “‘What the hell’ isn’t even a complete sentence, much less a question. You’re crazy.” “Get the hell off me!” I yelled, struggling to move him. He

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 45

bounced off, still sitting close but no longer impeding an upright position. I scooted away. “Who are you?” I asked, moving away again and trying uselessly to keep him at bay as he scooted closer. “What the f--?” “Horatio,” he responded, still grinning. The old man that was sitting across from me paid no attention. The train entered a tunnel, and the sunlight disappeared. The lights in the car were the only things I could see generating light. The train ran so smoothly that after a while I couldn’t tell if we were moving or not. “What are you doing?” “Sitting next to you!” he exclaimed with joy. By now I was against the wall of the car. I couldn’t move anywhere. “Go away! Or at least sit farther away!” I yelled, trying to push him away. He was bizarrely strong. “No.” His response was negative purely under the strict tenets of grammar, but there was nothing negative about the big stupid grin on his face or the tone of his voice. He could have been a clown. “What do you want?” I gave up and tried to move my head as far away from his as I could, and in the process hit my head on the window. He smelled strange, but not unpleasant as I would have expected a homeless guy to smell. “To find out who you are! I’m interested. I like riding the train.” I looked around helplessly. The two other train occupants were clearly entranced by whatever it was that they were doing, and I was pinned down by this crazy grinning moron. This had never happened to me before. My entire life up to this point had not prepared me for such a situation, because it never happened to anyone ever. I was never taught the proper etiquette for a situation like this. He waited patiently, still brimming with apparent happiness, or maybe hysteria. He did not seem to pose any threat to me. He did not seem to be armed, and though he was strong, he did not utilize that strength harmfully. I was not in pain. I have no clue why I did what I did next. “I’m Jerry.” I had read somewhere that you were supposed to ignore people like him. Almost as soon as the words fell helplessly from my mouth he exploded. “Hello, Jerry!” He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. I jerked it away from him after it was evident that he wouldn’t stop shaking until I did. “Where are you going?” he asked. “To work,” I said.

________________________________________________________________ 46 • THE TRILLIUM

“Work. Right.” He smiled and shook my hand again. “Have fun!” He abruptly stood up, patted my shoulder with a rough hand, and left.

I stared at him as he left the car. I looked at the old man and the smart-looking girl. They remained inattentive. I looked out the window. I looked at the door he had just left. I blinked once. The train roared out of the tunnel and the light hurt my eyes for a moment. I sat back and straightened my coat. I looked again over at the old man reading his newspaper. I think he was reading about some merger. He seemed content, perhaps a grandfatherly old man. The train pulled into my stop. I got off slowly. People moved around me, concerned with their daily business. I wondered with a hopeful sense of kinship if any of them were going to do the same job I was going to do. I bought my wife flowers on the way home.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 47

JEREMY ALESSI

COLLECTIVE For W E G My eyes would fingertip textures On his chalk-confectionered tie Had profundity not slapped me twice Into red-cheeked quarter-spins. My feet war onward, Slaved to sidewalk beats. My stare chain-link fences School-girl glances, peeking Like dime store hands of Candy-craving children Yet, he is no piper. May my neighbor dream heavy Her sidewards grins zipped up Like bookbag blackness. He speaks in coin And I am weaving erring baskets

________________________________________________________________ 48 • THE TRILLIUM

AILEEN TOROLA

FIRST STEPS

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 49

MELISSA MUNNS

AN EVENING WITH GRANDPA “Other things may change us, but we start and end with family.” –Anthony Brandt I meekly crept into his room in the old farmhouse. His eyes sought me, not recognizing my identity but begging my service. He managed to weakly stammer the word “bread” in a voice that was no longer fully human but resembled the squeak of a helpless bird. I honored his request and retrieved a slice of wheat from the refrigerator, but when I presented it to him, his mouth refused to form the “thank you” he so desperately wanted to say and I so desperately needed to hear. This is the only clear image I have of my grandfather. The next time I remember seeing his face, four years later, he rested not in his bed but in a casket. In spite of the fact that I never really knew him, or maybe because of it, my grandpa is the person with whom I would choose to spend an evening. I wanted to describe an encounter with someone famous, influential, or historical—Mother Theresa, Mary Magdalene, or Martin Luther King, Jr., perhaps. I thought a big name would impress my readers, but my heart refused to concede. It kept pointing me to the chasm of yearning this question opened within me. Instead of choosing a philanthropic or spiritual hero distant from myself, my heart embraced the man who still remains close after all these years. My grandfather has always occupied a place near to my heart but far removed from my life. Diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease soon after my birth, he progressed into its final stages just as I grew old enough to appreciate him. We never held a true conversation or shared a real hug, and I always longed for such intimacy. During the seemingly hopeless, wearying moments of my life, I habitually yearned for someone to sweep me into his arms and comfort me in a way that only a grandfather can. The older I got, the more I wanted to be Grandpa’s little girl. I craved someone big and strong to admire, a rock for my turbulent adolescent world, someone who would see a hint of beauty in my soul and love me simply for who I was. If I could gain a night with my grandfather, I would pour out my soul, telling him of my triumphs, struggles, shortcomings, and aspirations. My life story would fall freshly on his ears, untainted by previous awareness. I would relate my longing for

________________________________________________________________ 50 • THE TRILLIUM

his presence in my life and tell him how, although God had filled the deepest crevices of my heart, I always felt a pang of loneliness when I watched a granddaughter rest her head on her grandpa’s shoulder. When I finished my confession, he would smile tenderly, take me in his arms, and begin to dance with me. His eyes would whisper a message to my soul, expressing all the comfort, assurance, and love I yearned to feel. I would rest my head on his shoulder and soak in the time-stopping beauty of the relationship I had always wanted. And as we danced across the floor, he would gaze at me with a nostalgic look in his eyes, finally thanking me for the bread I had given him all those years ago.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 51

JASON SCHILLER

THE LAST DAYS OF INNOCENCE

________________________________________________________________ 52 • THE TRILLIUM

MARIE ZUERCHER SINGLETON

MY MATTRESS, LIKE UNTO MY LOVER: A SONNET Nocturnal lights their silent vigil kept while bleary red-eyed and seeking rest small I, bathed in darkness, meekly crept to my bed, that four-postered heaving breast. The connection to be found eluded me⎯ peeling back inviting wooly covers my frame fell into the mattress gently sighing warm breath like unto my lover’s. All the starry host could not keep from me This secret deep dormant in tightened coil: A kinship betwixt my mattress and thee, for unto my mattress and thou art the foil. ‘ Tis true—my lover wraps me tight in eider-down caress Each now-I-lay-me-down bespeaks my lover, my mattress

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 53

Contributors Jeremy Alessi graduated from Trinity in 1998. He lives in Oak Lawn, Illinois, where he serves as youth pastor of Elim Evangelical Free Church. He has written a book of poems, “Before Sleep,” some of which have been published in literary magazines. “Tet” was published in The Trillium in spring 1997, and “Collective” in fall 1996. James Allen graduated from Trinity in 2004. He lives in Omaha, Nebraska, where he is studying for an M.A. in Religion. James drew the trillium that has appeared on the title page of The Trillium since fall 2000. Kristina Anderson graduated from Trinity in 2001. She has been the Director of Foundation and Corporate Relations for Trinity’s Institutional Advancement office since 2004. “Anniversary” appeared in spring 1998, “Pleas(e)” appeared in fall 1997, and “Water Falls” appeared in fall 1998. NEB is Nicki Bennett Johnson, who graduated from Trinity in 2001. She worked in Trinity’s library until February of 2005 and is now teaching English in Sanya, a tropical island in the South China Sea. “Right Back Atcha” appeared in spring 2000. Kaelee Berghuis is a junior at Trinity majoring in Christian Ministries. “Boy in a Faded Black Suit” appeared in spring 2005, and “The Haze Ever So Thick” appeared in fall 2004. Kelli Bowlden was at Trinity 1997-2000. “Ode to My Tattoo” was published in fall 1999. Kristian Carlson graduated in 2003 with an English major. He currently lives in Missouri. “Gracie” was published in spring 2003. Ann Eberhardt graduated from Trinity in 2004. She is teaching English in an elementary and secondary school in Peru. “Concerning Being” appeared in fall 2003. Rachel Fabro is a junior at Trinity majoring in Communications. After she graduates, she wants to be a photojournalist for a mission organization in Africa. “Hungarian Ballad” was published in spring 2005. Daniel Frampton is a junior at Trinity majoring in General Studies. After he graduates, he wants to work in the local church. “Remember the Sabbath” was published in fall 2004. Caitlin Greener is a sophomore at Trinity majoring in English. Her drawing, “Sunburn,” won second place in the Young People’s Art Exhibition in 2003. Pamela Juzwick Hallsson attended Trinity 1999-2001 and graduated from Northern Illinois University in 2003. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she is a high school biology teacher. “A Walk in the Dark” appeared in fall 2000.

________________________________________________________________ 54 • THE TRILLIUM

Marta McDonald Hardacre graduated from Trinity in 2004. She is the faculty assistant at Trinity College. Her future plans involve journalism. “Stretch Marks” appeared in fall 2002. Randy Hofbauer is a second year senior at Trinity. After he graduates he wants to study English so that he can become an editor. “The Silence” was published in fall 2003. Stephen Hull is a sophomore at Trinity studying English and philosophy. He wants to study creative writing after he graduates. “Train Ride” appeared in spring 2005. Amos Hunt attended Trinity 1999-2001 and graduated from Thomas More College of Liberal Arts in New Hampshire in 2005. A revised version of “Some people call me a hack . . .” was published in his literary magazine, The Grub Street Grackle. It was published in The Trillium in spring 2001. Jessica Keller graduated from Trinity in 2005 and is now working in the finance department of the Village of Deerfield. Since college she has had several stories published. “A Long Walk Home” was published in fall 2001. Christopher McCammon graduated from Trinity in 2003. He is working on a Ph.D. in philosophy at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln, Nebraska. “An Anatomy of Starbucks” was published in fall 2002. Sarah Fowler McCammon graduated from Trinity in 2003. She is a radio reporter for a National Public Radio affiliate in Lincoln, Nebraska. “Thievery” appeared in fall 2001, and “Sympathy” appeared in spring 2002. Brad Michalak graduated from Trinity in 2001. He lives in Arlington Heights, Illinois. “Drawing of a Man” was published in spring 2001. Melissa Munns graduated from Trinity in 2005. She is working on an M.A. in education at Roosevelt University in Chicago so that she can teach high school history and psychol-ogy. “An Evening with Grandpa” was published in spring 2004. Elizabeth Norris graduated from Trinity in 1999. She is the general practice case manager for a law firm in Sacramento, California, and is also a third-year evening student at the University of the Pacific School of Law. “Guilt” was published in fall 1996. Billy Reeves graduated from Trinity in 2005. He lives in Long Beach, California. “American Love” appeared in spring 2004. Stephen Reichert graduated from Trinity in 1997 and from the University of Maryland School of Law in 2000. In 1999 he founded Smartish Pace, a bi-annual magazine of poetry. He is currently a traffic court judge in Washington, DC, and the editor of Smartish Pace, whose website is www.smartishpace.com. Jason Schiller was at Trinity 2000-2003. “The Last Days

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2005 • 55

Innocence” appeared in spring 2002. Marie Zuercher Singleton graduated from Trinity in 2000. She lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, where she sells real estate. “My Mattress, Like Unto My Lover: A Sonnet” was published in spring 1999. Amber Stark graduated from Trinity in 2003. “Small Wonder” was published in spring 2003. Dr. Bernard Stein is Josiah Feinberg, who attended Trinity 1995-1997. He is now a student at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington, from which he plans to graduate in 2006. “The Ethics of Christian Aesthetics” appeared in spring 1997. Ruby Thomas graduated from Trinity in December, 2004. While at Trinity, she was a managing editor of The Trillium. She is a communication specialist in Trinity’s Department of Communications & Marketing. “Shall I Compare Thee” appeared in fall 2003. Daniel J. Todd graduated from Trinity in 1997. He is a free- lance copywriter, teaches high school English in Guatemala City, and is Senior Editor of Smartish Pace. “From ‘The Chronicles of Herman Clown,’ Ch. III” was published in fall 1996. Aileen Torola is a senior at Trinity majoring in English. She is also a veterinary technician. After graduating from Trinity, she wants to study socio-linguistics. “First Steps” was published in spring 2004. Catherine Wenkel graduated from Trinity in 2003. She is a student at the College of Veterinary Medicine at the University of Illinois. “Hooked” appeared in fall 2001. Joshua Westerholm graduated from Trinity in 2000 and from Northwestern University School of Law in 2004. He is an attorney at an international law firm in Chicago. “Man of Steel” appeared in spring 1996. Matt Whitman graduated from Trinity in 1998. He is a college/young adult pastor at Warm Springs Baptist Church in Las Vegas, Nevada. “Crazy Raul” was published in spring 1997. Cliff Williams has taught philosophy at Trinity since 1982. He founded The Trillium in 1985 and has been its faculty advisor since then. Sandi Liniewicz Zakroczymski attended Trinity during 2001-2002 and acquired a Certificate for Nurse Assisting from College of Lake County in 2003. She is an administrative assistant in a civil engineering office in Lindenhurst, Illinois. “Morning Dew” appeared in fall 2001. Ethan Zlomke attended Trinity 1997-1999. He lives in Madison, Wisconsin, where he is a teacher at Mad City Training Community. “Morning Song” was published in fall 1998.

________________________________________________________________ 56 • THE TRILLIUM